Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  She was the most depraved, fickle, wanton woman that ever lived.

  Rolling over on her stomach, she covered her head with the pillow. She had given up her virtue outside of wedlock. She had made love with a man other than her fiance. And worst of all, dear heaven, she hadn’t even known who was making love to her!

  She squeezed the pillow more tightly over her head. It was all Phillip’s fault. She had been content before he came, filling her head with impossible dreams, making her aware of needs and wants she hadn’t even known existed. Needs and wants that had translated into the most incredible pleasure she’d ever known....

  “No, no, no!” she groaned. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t have happened. It must have been a dream. In the morning light, last night’s wild passion seemed too incredible, too intense to possibly be real. Real people didn’t do things like that. Did they?

  Hazy memories filled her brain. Images of writhing bodies; the sounds of moaning and panting; rough and smooth textures of skin and hair; the smell of....

  Margaret stuck her nose out from under the pillow, sniffing. She groaned. It was there. The redolent smell of sin.

  She cringed. Sin was hardly a strong enough word. Most young ladies would never allow a man to do such...such things.

  She trembled all over. She was ruined.

  She would never be accepted in Society. If they knew about her wild behavior...the things she had let Bernard--Phillip?--do to her...the things she had done to him...if they knew....

  They must not know. No one must know. She had to make sure no one ever found out. Margaret threw the pillow away and jumped out of bed, frantically looking around.

  The room screamed of wantonness. It reeked of lust. It revealed her guilt all too plainly. She must do something quickly, before the servants appeared.

  She yanked her chemise and grey dress over her head, covering her nakedness, hiding her sinfulness. Fingers fumbling with the catch, she threw open the window, making fanning motions with her hands in a futile attempt to air out the room. She tore the bottom sheet off the bed, crumpled it up and stuffed it in the wardrobe. She stood on a chair to recover a stocking from the pagoda roof, and got down on her hands and knees to retrieve her pantalettes from under the escritoire.

  As she clutched the pantalettes, a glint of gold caught her eye. She reached for the object, her fingers closing over the cool, hard metal. Bernard’s watch. She clutched it, panic rising in her. Dear God, she must get it back to him; otherwise someone might think that she and him...him and her...he and she....

  Margaret tensed. She couldn’t move or breathe or focus. Her ears rang. Only her sense of smell seemed to be functioning properly and very clearly she could smell a faint odor of tobacco.

  “Margaret,” a low voice whispered.

  The paralysis vanished. Leaping to her feet, she screeched, “You! Look what you have done to me!”

  *****

  Obediently, Phillip inspected her rumpled form, noting her disheveled hair, unbuttoned dress, and bare feet. His lips twitched as he saw she was clutching those shocking pantalettes in one hand and a watch in the other. She looked like she had spent the night being passionately loved, he thought with satisfaction tempered by frustration--frustration because once again his faulty memory was playing tricks on him. Try as he might, he could not quite recall what had happened last night.

  His memories were mostly of something he had never experienced before--a love that transcended the physical, that was so deep and true, it made him ache with longing.

  He did remember those pantalettes, though. “No need to thank me,” he drawled.

  “Thank you! Why you...you....” Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she buried her face in the pantalettes and burst into noisy tears.

  “Margaret!” What was the matter with her? Surely she did not regret what had happened last night? Kneeling down in front of her, he tried to see her face. “Here now, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you. Please Margaret, more than anything I wish I could make you happy. I love you, Margaret--“

  She sobbed louder. “Love! How can you say you love me when you have ruined my chance for marriage?”

  Phillip stiffened. Rising slowly to his feet, he stared down at her. An unnamed emotion, raw and ugly, ripped through him. “Is that what this is about? Are you afraid old Bernie will break your betrothal?”

  She looked up at that, a militant sparkle replacing the tears. “Yes, I’m afraid! Ladies don’t sleep with other men when they’re engaged to someone else.”

  “You woke up with Bernard. If the simpleton has any sense, he will make sure you do so a thousand times more.”

  “He won’t see it like that. Ladies aren’t supposed to sleep with their fiances either. He will probably break off the engagement.”

  “If he does, he is the worst kind of hypocrite,” Phillip bit out. “It was as much him as me.”

  “How dare you!” She jumped up, arms folded across her chest. “Bernard would never do anything so...dishonorable!”

  “You think not?” He turned away slightly. “Your Bernard has more to him than I ever guessed,” he muttered.

  “Why, you--“

  Impatiently, he interrupted her. “Where is the dishonor? In loving you? In giving you pleasure?”

  He heard her breath catch. Abruptly she turned away, the unbuttoned dress gaping to reveal a long vee of creamy white skin. Incredibly soft, smooth skin. He had a fleeting memory of how it had felt, like a butterfly’s wing, and how it had tasted, like sweet honey. He stepped forward, his gaze travelling the beckoning expanse. On her back, near her neck, a small red mark was visible. Where he had kissed her, he was almost certain.

  “I...That wasn’t pleasure.” Margaret lied through her teeth.

  He had lost the thread of their argument. Tearing his gaze away from her back, it took a moment for her words to make sense, and when they did, anger surged through him. “What? Do you try to deny what you felt, Margaret?” He took another step forward. “The way you have spent your whole life denying what you are? You are a creature of passion, a sensual woman longing for escape from your drab existence.”

  “That’s not true!” She whirled around, only to look startled to find him so close. She took a step back.

  He followed.

  He walked forward until her back was against a wall, but the mulish expression on her face didn’t change. She turned her head aside, her mouth a stubborn line.

  “You know it is true.” He wanted to bury his hands in her soft, thick hair and force her to look at him, but he couldn’t. Leaning forward until his mouth was by her ear, he whispered, “Ah, Margaret. We proved it is true.”

  Obstinately, she shook her head. He wanted to grab her into his arms, and kiss her sweet lips until she admitted it. But he couldn’t.

  Only Bernard could.

  Jealousy and anger roiled through him. “You are going to marry dull old Bernard and be bored out of your skull for the rest of your life. And for what? For security. Safety. So that you’ll never have to risk anything; never have to discover what you really are. Do you know what your problem is, Margaret? You’re afraid to live.”

  Her chin snapped up, her eyes a blaze of defiance, and words spilled out of her. “What of you? Isn’t it about time you acknowledged what your problem is? I think Madame Razinski was right--this curse is working only because you believe it. Because you want to believe it.” Her breathing made little choppy noises. “Because you’re afraid to die.”

  The words echoed through the room. He tried to push them away, but they bore into him, drilling down to the very core of his brain. Brother Clement’s voice rang in his head, You’ll roast in hell, You’ll roast in hell.

  The black void, hovering in the corner, pulsed, expanded. It swept over him, almost overwhelming him, and he felt himself fading. He fought against it, the cold sapping his will, sapping his strength. He struggled to focus on Margaret’s face.

  “Phillip--“ Her voice was dist
ant, fuzzy. “Phillip!”

  The blackness receded, leaving him weak as an infant, shaking like an old man. His vision cleared and Margaret’s frightened face swam before his eyes.

  “Phillip?”

  Her soft voice broke the control he had maintained for over seventy-eight years. Feelings he had denied for most of his life exploded in a maelstrom of words.

  “Dammit, yes. Yes, I’m afraid,” he raged. For years he had held the fear at bay, years of nothingness, emptiness, loneliness. Now she had loosed it, and it spilled out in an uncontrollable flood of fury. “Is that what you want to hear? Is it?” he shouted. He leaned closer to her, and she pressed her head back against the wall, her face white and shocked.

  He leaned closer, his face barely an inch from hers, staring into her wide, fearful eyes. Her chest rose and fell and he should have been able to feel her breath, but he couldn’t.

  Because he was dead.

  Thrusting himself away from her, he paced around the room. “You don’t know what it’s like, having total darkness hovering, sucking at you. If I let go, I may never know anything again. It may be hell. It probably is hell, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight. For seventy-eight years I’ve been fighting it and damned if I will let it win.” He stopped in front of her again and glared down into her face.

  Her eyes were huge pools of tears. “Phillip, you shouldn’t...shouldn’t be frightened. I wish I could make you believe that. I wish you could see that if you believe, you have nothing to fear.”

  She had a beautiful voice. It could almost make him forget his fear, make him believe anything. The rage in him waned, leaving him tired and drained. Black spots began to dance before his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said wearily. “But dammit, I wasn’t ready to die. There were still things for me to do. I should have done them when I had the opportunity, but I always thought there was time...time for the truly important things, time to have children, time to fall in love--“

  “Oh, Phillip--“

  The black spots were growing bigger. Realizing what they meant, for an instant he felt a wave of panic. But the panic quickly faded, leaving a deep grief, a sorrow for all the things that might have been. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision before he turned and looked at her. “Listen to me, Margaret, I haven’t much time.”

  “What...what do you mean?”

  “I think you know, sweeting. Don’t look so tragic. We knew my time here was limited. I can only thank God for allowing me this precious few weeks.”

  “Please don’t--“

  “Perhaps that was the real reason I came back. To fall in love with you.” Her image was growing dim, her beautiful face blurring with her hair and dress.

  “Phillip--“

  “The time has been short, but incredibly sweet. I’m glad I came back. Otherwise I would never have known you. Never have touched you, loved you.”

  He could barely hear her voice, raw with aching sorrow, whispering, saying...what?

  “Phillip, I...I--“

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Margaret barely heard the knock. Her whole attention was centered on Phillip. She wished she could take back the dreadful thing she had said to him. He was fading quickly--she knew in a few more minutes he would be gone forever.

  Dear heaven, he did not have much time, and she was afraid she was going to cry.

  “Margaret, may I speak to you?”

  She turned to see Aunt Letty peering uncertainly around the door, a piece of paper in one hand, her jar in the other.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, dear, but--oh my, are you getting dressed?” Aunt Letty eyed the pantalettes Margaret was clutching. “I am sorry.”

  “Oh,” Margaret stared blankly at the pantalettes before thrusting them behind her back. “No, I was just sewing on a bit of loose lace.” She looked back at Phillip and her heart wrenched. He was barely visible.

  “I see. Well, Bernard asked me to give you this.” She held out the folded piece of paper. Margaret stared at it. She knew what it was, of course. Still clutching the pantalettes, she reluctantly held out her other hand, forgetting she also still held the watch.

  It slipped from her loosened grasp, falling with a thud to the floor.

  “Why, that’s Bernard’s watch,” Aunt Letty said, clasping the jar to her breast.

  Sunlight reflected off the watch, highlighting the ornate letter P scrolled on the case.

  A P? Why would Bernard’s watch have...?

  Margaret froze, a horrible fear rising in her.

  Her gaze flew to Phillip. He was also staring at the watch, but as if he felt her gaze, he looked up. His face was expressionless.

  Dear heaven. Was the watch the token?

  “Oh dear, does Phillip want it back?”

  Margaret’s gaze swung to Aunt Letty. “Phillip?”

  “Why yes. He is here, isn’t he? I can always sense when he is. He understands, doesn’t he, why Bernard has his watch?”

  “Yes, I believe I do.” His voice was distant. “It has taken me a while to figure it all out--I should have realized when I had the watch at Mortimer’s card game--but yes, I do understand.”

  She had forgotten. Phillip had had the watch. It could not be the token, or he would already be gone.

  “Margaret?” Aunt Letty said.

  “Phillip says he understands.” But she didn’t. What was the significance of the watch? Did it represent the wrong Lord Robeson’s family had done Phillip’s...?

  “Oh, good. Here’s your note, then. And one more thing--“

  Margaret clutched the note in her fingers. Had Phillip been right...?

  “Would you give this to Phillip?” The old woman held out her jar.

  Margaret draped her pantalettes over one arm so she could grasp the smooth glass with both hands. “Give Phillip your jar?” If he had taken his revenge when he had the chance, would he now not be fading away into nothingness...?

  “Tell him I’ve kept his hand all nice and safe, but he must take it back now.”

  “His hand? What do you mean, Aunt Letty?” What did it all mean? Or did it all mean nothing...?

  “His hand.” Aunt Letty nodded at the glass container. “The witch paid the hangman to cut it off. But when the crowd dragged her away, I took it.”

  Margaret almost dropped the jar. She stared at the old woman in disbelief. “You have Phillip’s hand in here?”

  Aunt Letty nodded, smiling as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to be carrying around a severed hand. Margaret stared at the innocent-looking object in the jar before quickly averting her gaze. She felt nausea rise in her throat. She knew Aunt Letty was eccentric, but this--this was positively gruesome. She swallowed a little convulsively, and looked over at Phillip. He was very faint, but she could still see his hands--both of them.

  “But why...I mean, Aunt Letty, are you sure it’s Phillip’s?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure,” the old woman replied. “I had to take it or else Mortimer might have gotten it.”

  “What an interesting enigma,” Phillip observed, sounding for a moment like his old self. “Do you suppose ghosts are reunited with their missing body parts? Or do you think my ghost is reflective of how I looked at the moment of death--before my hand was cut off?”

  Margaret shuddered. How he could sound so casual about it? Personally, she would not be thrilled to discover parts of her body had been hacked off and stuck in a jar.

  Aunt Letty reached over to lightly pat the glass, smiling reminiscently. “I preserved it myself so I would have something to remember him by. It’s not at all difficult, you know. You just take the hand and wrap it in a piece of shroud drawn tight to squeeze out all the blood. Then you put it in an earthenware jar with salt peter and finely-ground, dried long peppers. After two weeks, you dry it in the sun until it’s nicely parched. That’s all! I must tell you, it’s been a source of great comfort to me.”

  Somewhere in the middle of Aun
t Letty’s speech on hand preservation, Margaret realized the truth. “Aunt Letty, the hand, it’s--“

  “It’s the token. I’m certain of it.” The old woman beamed proudly. “I figured it out all by myself. If I give it back, the curse will be broken.”

  Margaret gripped the jar. She looked at Phillip. He was so faint, he was almost invisible, but she could see him watching her. He said nothing, only looked at her.

  She stared back. This was it. They both knew it.

  Margaret tore her gaze away and looked at Aunt Letty. “Aunt Letty, will you leave--please?”

  “Of course, dear.” Margaret watched the old woman walk out of the room. The door closed gently behind her.

  With a deep breath, Margaret faced Phillip again.

  “So,” he said. “It must be the curse after all, keeping me here.”

  “Yes, it must be.” It was hard to get the words out. Her fingers tightened on the jar. She ought to give it to him immediately, but her limbs refused to obey as memories of the last few weeks tumbled through her brain.

  She remembered that first night, when he had stood over her, demanding, “Who the hell are you?” She remembered his wicked grin as he told her clothes were meaningless to a ghost and the sympathy in his eyes when she told him about being shunned. She remembered the dark intensity of his voice as he asked her, “Is it wrong for a man to make love to the woman he loves?”

  She would miss him--dear heaven, how she would miss him. She would miss the glint in his eyes, the smell of tobacco, his husky voice; she would even miss the swearing and teasing. She would miss his dark sensuality....

  Her throat aching, she took a step forward, gripping the jar more tightly.

  Phillip stepped forward, too, so that only a few scant inches parted them. Only a few inches that might as well be a thousand miles, he thought bitterly. It wasn’t fair. How could God play such a trick on him?

  He loved her. He loved her more than he had thought it possible to love anyone. He loved everything about her, the sweet tartness of her, the subtle beauty, the sensual innocence. He loved her and he had to leave her.